The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

  “You said you loved me.”

  “I do.” And I really did. So I had to ask, “Do you love him?”

  “I did. Not anymore. I wouldn’t have had sex with you if I did.”

  “Okay. Does he love you?”

  “He confuses jealousy with love.”

  I never had that problem, though I have confused sex with love. But not this time.

  Well, I was feeling really crappy, and I’m not used to being one side of a triangle. “We’ll stick to our story tonight, and when we get home, we can sort it out.”

  She nodded and took my hand. “When we get back, I’ll tell him.”

  I thought she was going to do that in Havana. But Felipe was not reachable by phone because he was on the boat. She must have forgotten.

  She forced a smile. “I love you even though you have no money.”

  Thanks for reminding me. But that was nice to hear, and I smiled.

  She looked around for the waitress. “Let’s have another drink.”

  “Not for me. But you have one.” I stood and slung my backpack on my shoulder.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a walk on the beach.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. We should split up—for tactical security. If the police are looking for us, they won’t get both of us, and one of us will be able to get to the hotel bar and meet our contact . . . Felipe.”

  She stood. “No—”

  “I’m giving the orders now, as I will be when I’m captain of my ship tonight. So get used to taking orders.”

  “Mac . . . no . . .”

  “You need to stay with the cargo.” I threw the keys on the table. “I’ll meet you at the Melia Hotel, lobby bar, at let’s say six-thirty.”

  She looked really upset, and we were starting to attract attention, so I gave her a kiss and said, “It’s okay. This is the way to do it. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  And off I went, down toward the beach with my backpack and Glock. I glanced back to see if she was following, but I didn’t see her.

  In love and war, you need to make hard decisions.

  Well, this should be an interesting night. And hopefully the last surprise.

  CHAPTER 49

  I walked west along the nearly deserted beach, then came around to the tip of the island and continued along the southern shore, but I ran into a mangrove swamp and headed inland. Sometimes you need to recon the terrain, and sometimes you need to do a one-man recon of your head.

  I made my way through the bush for awhile before I realized I was half asleep and still walking. I used to be good at sleepwalking on forced night marches, but I had no objective today except to be alone, so I found a patch of clear ground under a tall palm and sat.

  I pulled my Glock from my pack, stuck it under my shirt, and leaned back against the tree trunk. It was hot inland, and buggy, so I didn’t expect company.

  Thinking back on all this, I should have suspected that Sara’s boyfriend in Miami was none other than Felipe. The clues, as I said, were there, but I wasn’t putting them together. And not because I’m dense, but because I didn’t want to go there. My mother used to call this willful ignorance. She still does.

  Well, I’ve been in situations like this before, but this was the first time the boyfriend was going to be onboard the boat we’d all have to share on our midnight run. Me, Jack, Felipe, and Sara. We’d have to figure out the sleeping arrangements. Could be awkward, even though we were all going to pretend that I’d been a perfect gentleman in Cuba.

  I understood why Sara had lied, and I understood that she was conflicted, and that at some point she’d made up her mind about Felipe. But the only way this wasn’t going to be a problem in Cayo Guillermo was if she and I had never made it here, as she said. But here we were, against all odds.

  Side two of this triangle was Felipe. I really didn’t give a shit that he was half crazy with jealousy because his girlfriend was alone with me in Cuba. But as a guy, I could sympathize with him. I actually liked him when I met him in Key West. He seemed competent, assured, and trustworthy. But thinking back, I realized now that he was sizing me up, probably trying to guess if I was the kind of guy who’d try to pop his girlfriend. If I’d known what the situation was, I would have assured him that I wasn’t that kind of guy. But no one told me, so I didn’t have the chance to be noble. Instead, I had a chance to get laid.

  And why, I wondered, did no one tell me that Sara and Felipe were an item? Maybe Sara was supposed to tell me. And if not her, why not Carlos or Eduardo? Well, maybe because they really wanted me to come onboard, to use a nautical term, and Sara Ortega was one of many shiny lures. Sara, though, did say she had a boyfriend. She just couldn’t remember his name.

  Bottom line, this mission was important to Eduardo, Carlos, and their amigos, and they’d do or say anything to make it happen. I could only imagine what they’d said to Felipe to make him agree to send his girlfriend on a dangerous mission with a handsome stranger. And what did Sara say to assure Felipe that she’d keep her legs crossed? I suspect there were promises made and talk of issues larger and more important than two people. And maybe a large cash payment to Felipe, to help him with his jealousy. And no one was really thinking about this moment when it all came together.

  And then there was Sara, the object of many men’s affection—me, Felipe, Eduardo, and of course Antonio. Carlos liked her, too, but Carlos was all business. Love is a subparagraph in the contract.

  But Sara, I was sure, had thought all this out more than she let on—and maybe more than she knew. She’d teased and flirted a bit on my boat, and I understood what she was doing. And long before we got to Havana, she knew we’d wind up in bed. I mean, I wasn’t sure, but she was. And she told me, matter-of-factly on day one in Havana at the Hotel Nacional, that we had a date. So at least she wasn’t pretending to me or to herself that she had been seduced. She was in fact, as I knew, making a deal with me: sex for reliability and commitment to the mission.

  But when you make a deal like that, there are unintended consequences. Like falling in love. I think that’s what happened.

  Now we needed to come full circle, back to the mission, and make sure that hearts full of passion, jealousy, and hate didn’t screw it up in the last act. Key West was in sight. Except it would be me at the helm with Jack. And Felipe and Sara would be sitting on the bow—or in a stateroom together. Should I make a captain’s rule—no screwing onboard?

  It should be an interesting cruise. But first, cocktails at 7. Then a midnight escape past Cuban gunboats.

  I closed one eye and went into that half-sleep that I’d perfected in the Army, with one hand on my gun and one half of my brain awake and alert.

  My last conscious thought was that Sara really believed she was in love with me in Cuba—palm trees, danger, daiquiris, moonlight, and love songs. We’d see how this played out in Key West and Miami. But first we had to get there.

  CHAPTER 50

  I woke from my afternoon siesta, stuck my Glock in my backpack, and made my way through the bush to the road that led to the Melia Hotel.

  It was just past 6 P.M., the sun was low on the horizon, and the beach road was deserted. I guessed it was about two miles to the Melia, and I could make it in less than half an hour if I picked up my pace and if a police car didn’t offer me a lift.

  On that subject, I felt just a bit guilty about leaving Sara on her own, but she could take care of herself, and splitting up really was a good tactical move. Also, she’d pissed me off.

  I’d had no startling revelations during my half-sleep, no subconscious insights or fuzzy feelings, and no epiphany when I woke up. I was actually still pissed off.

  And what pisses me off is when people lie to me, and I was also pissed off at Carlos and Eduardo. Carlos had a lot of explaining to do when I got back. Eduardo was a dead man walking, so he got a pass.

  If I thought about it, Felipe was the guy who’d been totally bullshitted
. And there was more bullshit to come for Felipe.

  I passed the Sol Club, and I could see the Melia ahead, set back from the road. I checked my watch. It was 6:30. I noticed that the sun set a little earlier here than in Havana. I also noticed that the sky was dark with fast-moving clouds.

  I picked up my pace and walked up the palm-lined driveway of the hotel, hot, sweaty, and looking for the Buick in the circular driveway—but I didn’t see it. Shit.

  I was about to ask a car park guy if he’d seen a beautiful lady in a beautiful American car, when I spotted the Buick pulling up. Sara saw me, but stayed in the wagon and spoke to one of the attendants in Spanish, then gave him some folding money and parked the car herself in the driveway. She got out with her backpack, locked the doors, kept the keys, and walked over to me.

  I didn’t know what to expect, but she said, “I was worried sick about you.”

  “I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Do you care?”

  This was going to be a long night. “Let’s get a drink.”

  We walked into the hotel and found the lobby bar, a dimly lit place called Las Orquídeas, The Orchids, though there wasn’t an orchid in sight. There were, however, lots of empty cocktail tables and chairs, and Sara asked the hostess, in English, to seat us by the window because she wanted a view of her Buick that had seventeen skulls and título de propiedades in the back, though she didn’t explain all that.

  We put our backpacks on the floor and sat in facing armchairs, leaving a seat for Felipe to form a triangle.

  Sara said, “I was afraid you weren’t going to show up.”

  “Where was I going to go?”

  “I thought you were going to pick up a woman on the beach.”

  Why didn’t I think of that?

  “I was also worried you’d get stopped.”

  It occurred to me that this mission could proceed without me. “That would have solved at least one problem.”

  She leaned toward me. “If you didn’t show up here, I would have searched every inch of this island for you.”

  “Same here.”

  She sat back in her seat and glanced at her watch, then looked around the lounge. “Most of the guests are in the outdoor bar at this hour, and it’s usually empty here.”

  I wasn’t overly impressed that Carlos—or someone—had sent an advance party to scout out the terrain. But I was again encouraged that there was a plan to get us out of here.

  Regarding that, assuming Sara and I were the subjects of a police hunt, it wasn’t entirely safe to be meeting Felipe in a public place. The original plan anticipated that our disappearance from the Yale group might trigger a police response, but it would have been a low-priority search for two hot tamales missing from their tour group, and the police would have had fun searching the nude beaches around Havana. But because of shithead Antonio, Sara Ortega and Daniel MacCormick were now suspected of . . . whatever. And here we were in the bar of the Melia Hotel, and I wondered if our airport photos were appearing on Tele Rebelde.

  Well, the lounge lighting was romantically dim, and the last week had changed our appearance a bit, so I didn’t think the waitress was going to start screaming, “Here are the Americanos they’re looking for!” We’d see soon enough.

  Sara was staring at me and I flashed a phony smile.

  “Where did you go?” she asked accusingly.

  “I took a walk. How about you?”

  “I stayed where you left me until I got kicked out at five, then I sat in the wagon and cried and worried about you.”

  Daniel MacCormick, you are a true and total shit. “I just needed a walk.”

  “Don’t do that again.” She added, “You stuck me with the bill.”

  “I’ll buy tonight.” Unless Felipe is buying.

  A waitress in a sort of sarong came by, wished us good evening, and didn’t start screaming for the police. She asked, “Are you guests of the hotel?”

  Sara replied, “We’re at the Sol Club. We’ll pay in CUCs.”

  “Sí, señora.”

  Sara ordered a daiquiri—just like in Toronto—and I ordered a diet Coke so I could keep a clear head.

  Sara said to me, “You should be trying something local.” She said to the waitress, “Please give this gentleman a Cuba Libre.” She asked me, “Have you ever had one?”

  I smiled. “Once. On my boat.”

  The waitress left to get our drinks and Sara asked, “Do you sail?”

  “I’m a fisherman.”

  “What do you fish for?”

  “Peace.”

  “That’s good.”

  She looked at me. “I’m Sara Ortega. Do you love me?”

  “I do.”

  She leaned toward me. “Can we start all over?”

  Meaning, can I put all the bullshit behind me? Why not? Life is short. “Sure.”

  “The only lies you’re going to hear from me tonight or ever again are what I say to Felipe.”

  I remembered a similar promise, but I replied, “Okay.”

  “Are we going to be together when we get back?”

  “I’d like that . . . but . . . you know, sometimes when people are thrown into a dangerous situation together—”

  “They see what the other person is made of. I like what I’ve seen.” She looked at me.

  “Me too.” I’ve done a great job. Sara, too.

  Our drinks came and we touched glasses. Here’s looking at you, kid. Cue the soundtrack.

  I said, “I assume I’m supposed to know that you and Felipe are an item.”

  She nodded. “I was supposed to tell you.”

  “When?”

  “After we landed at the airport.”

  I seemed to recall that when we took a walk at the Nacional, on our first day in Havana, she’d told me she didn’t have a boyfriend, which contradicted what she’d said on my boat when she told me she did have a boyfriend. But she later confessed—after sex—that, actually, she had a boyfriend. I should have written this down.

  She reminded me, “I did tell you.”

  “I appreciate your honesty.” I suggested, “Sometimes a name helps.”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  Good question. If I’d known I was cuckolding Felipe, a teammate, would I have gone to bed with her?

  “Mac?”

  “It’s a moot question.”

  “You sound like Carlos. That’s what lawyers say.”

  “I’ve never been so insulted.”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  That’s what women say. But I didn’t say that.

  She sat back in her chair and confessed, “I’m a little nervous.”

  “Drink up.”

  “I think he’s going to take one look at us—”

  “He already knows. Or he thinks he knows. Or he’s just pissed off that we’ve been together, day and night, for a week.”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s stick to business. And the business is getting the hell out of here without getting killed.” I assured her, “He knows that, and that’s his primary concern tonight. You are his secondary concern.”

  “You know how to make a woman feel special.”

  I agreed, “I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  I also mentioned my concern about being recognized if our photos were being circulated, or broadcast on TV.

  Sara had obviously thought about that—or been briefed—and replied, “The average Cuban wants nothing to do with the police, and they would only be good citizens if the police were looking for a murderer or rapist. They don’t care about enemies of the regime.” She added, “Most Cubans like Americans.”

  “We’re Canadians.”

  She continued, “The chivatos are another matter, but as you saw with Antonio, most chivatos would like to shake you down before they called the police.” She also reminded me, “There are few if any chivatos in the resort islands.”

  “It only takes one.” I asked her, “What if the
Ministry of the Interior has offered an actual monetary reward for information leading to our arrest?”

  She didn’t reply immediately, then said, “Well . . . that would be a problem.” She added, “But we won’t be sitting here long after we meet our contact . . . Felipe.” She explained, “The tournament has booked an extra room at the Melia and Felipe is supposed to have a key, and that’s where we’re going to hide out—and freshen up—until we’re ready to leave here and get our cargo aboard the boat.”

  “Okay. And who stays here to watch our cargo, and who goes up to the room?”

  “We can work that out when Felipe gets here.”

  That should be interesting. I know I don’t want to shower with Felipe. I asked, “Am I fully briefed now?”

  “Felipe has information that I don’t have, such as how to get us and the cargo onboard.”

  “Right.” Regarding our vehicle, if one of our amigos back in Havana was voluntarily or involuntarily talking to the police about a black ’53 Buick Roadmaster station wagon, we’d have a major problem, second only to the problem of the police connecting me to Fishy Business. We needed to get the Buick out of sight as soon as possible. And the faster we got on the water, the better.

  Sara had seated herself so she could see the station wagon through the window and also the lobby entrance. I had my back to both, so I wouldn’t know when our contact—Felipe—arrived until I saw the happy and surprised expression on Sara’s face. Or not so happy if it was the police.

  She kept looking at her watch. “He’s late.”

  “He’s probably having a few drinks before he gets here.”

  “Is that what you would do?”

  “I may have done that on similar occasions.”

  She looked at me. “You’re cool without being too macho.”

  “It’s okay to be honest. As long as you’re fearless.”

  She smiled, then looked over my shoulder, and I knew Felipe had arrived.

  Sara said to me, “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  She stood, smiled, and said, “Well, look who’s here.”

  I stood and turned around. It was Felipe. What a surprise.